


Errand boy and his problem with gravity

by hsilence



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 'i don't know where i'm going with this fic' fic, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Abuse, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 19:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17883989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hsilence/pseuds/hsilence
Summary: Jean finds himself being a voluntary errand boy for bandages. Just because of his self-proclaimed hate towards idiots who can't take care of themselves. And only because of that and nothing else. Nothing else at all.





	Errand boy and his problem with gravity

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have zero idea where this fanfic is going. It even started out as fic for a DIFFERENT pairing in a DIFFERENT fandom but I'm fickle if nothing else so tadahhhhh 
> 
> Please enjoy, knowing that my updates are as irregular as my PMS moods <333

Jean has always been a card-carrying cynic, but it’s because he’s a romantic at heart. The height was dangerous so he decided to tie sandbags around his ankles to keep him grounded because otherwise, he would be on cloud nine where the air was too thin to keep him breathing. 

The metaphorical 5 pound weights on each of his ankles were enough for a good while. He had been carrying them since 8 and they have been good to him. But he’s reconsidering if he has to add an extra pound when, suddenly, he can’t feel the ground under the bottoms of his feet, and he finds himself barely balancing gravity by the tip of his toes. 

It all happens when the nameless guy breezes by him, a phone gripped in one hand and the other dipped into the pocket of his pants. The bland blue-black slacks and the white-t button up of their school uniform both clung to him loosely but the sharp edges of his bones managed to keep them from looking shapeless. He momentarily stops and stares because he was always a sucker for indulging himself once in a while. 

His heartbeat isn’t any louder, his pulse doesn’t speed up, and if he has been looking into a mirror, he doubts his pupils are dilated either.

He turns away after giving himself that indulgent minute, silently adding extra pound of sand into the weights on his ankle. Just in case.

 

∞∞∞

 

The third and the highest floor of his high school is dedicated to third years like him, normal and advanced courses alike, along with 2 art rooms. The second floor is home to the library and music rooms with the first floor taking charge of the nurse. 

It’s the second week back from summer break and his body had finally gotten out of the awkward stage of being a 17 year old. He had better control of his limbs that seemed to flail all over before because his body decided to only shoot up vertically (5 feet 9 is where he was at but he argued that he’s still in his growth spurt). 

It’s still blazing hot in late August and the cicadas are unbearably deafening no matter where he went. The weak AC at school did nothing but to keep the sweat away just enough to save him from getting embarrassing pit stains. He counts himself lucky that his seat was by the door rather than by the window where the sunlight is given free reign to harass the poor, unfortunate souls who sat there. 

‘…’he stares at the clock above the blackboard of the classroom, watching the second hand tick, tick, tick. The pin-striped fabric of the history teacher’s suit is straining as he reaches upward with the chalk, writing words that his eyes are not registering. 

He hasn’t seem him since last week.

He counts that lucky as well.

 

∞∞∞

 

His luck runs out by the third week back. The reason he hadn’t seem him is because the nameless guy was not in the advanced course like him. He happened to be in one of the only two third year classes that had their classrooms on the second floor along with the second years. Other than the rare times when their electives crossed over, they wouldn’t cross paths. 

He has an art class on Thursday afternoon (they were supposed to be sketching still objects) and his class is heading up to the second floor lead by their teacher. He’s snickering hushedly at this friend’s stupid, inane jokes that never had a point when the corner of his eyes caught the lean silhouette again. 

He doesn’t stare, because he was ready this time round, but the bruise on his jaw, the small graze on his cheekbone, he still catches in a blur. He doesn’t stare but he figures he might as well have because it was all he could see inside his overly imaginative head throughout the entire day. 

Instead of a bowl of fruit with an empty vase on the side, he ends up drawing a poor imitation of a bandaid slapped across the nameless guy’s face. 

 

∞∞∞

 

Come Friday, he finds himself walking to school with a box of bandaid he bought from a convenience store. He didn’t hesitate nor did he think about what he was doing when he bought it; he just did, and now it was sitting uncomfortably in his pants pocket. 

‘This was a waste of money…I probably won’t even see him again.’

When he walks into his classroom, the homeroom teacher calls for someone to bring up a box of supplies to the second floor art room. His hand fiddling with the bandaid, he volunteers as casually as he could (he never volunteered) and his teacher gives him a pleasant smile before handing him the box. As he walks up the stairs, the corner of the bandaid digs into his thigh and the box of supplies are so highly stacked up, he can barely see over it. He manoeuvres cautiously, shouldering open the art room door before unceremoniously dumping the content on to the floor. 

He never particularly looks for him, but he is there when he closes the art room door, standing in middle of the second floor corridor. He swallows, the box of bandaids suddenly feeling like a rock, a heavy weight in his pocket. The graze is still there but in a less angry red and the bruise has turned an ugly mixture of purple and green. He seems to be standing in front of a classroom door and he doesn’t flinch at the few students rushing by him to get to their class on time. 

He hasn’t noticed him yet; he doubts he ever saw his face but he walks towards him anyways. 

‘Just to give him the bandaid…’ 

He stops before him, not sure what the right way to get his attention is. A cough? A tap on the shoulder?

But he doesn’t have to because the guy turns towards him. He’s glad he doesn’t have to feel outlandishly malnourished like he does with some of his friends (they grew like they were on anabolic steroids). He has an unremarkable face, only disturbed by the scratch and the bruise. And the eyes: the eyes were eerily bright and he bet if the sunlight hit them the right way, it had more colours to it than he knew the names of. 

‘Right, the bandaid,’ he reminds himself and fishes it out of his pocket. It feels strange in his hands and he ignores the fact that his hands are trembling when he pushes it towards him. There is a lull. 

He’s thinking of throwing it out the open window, rewind the whole 10 minutes, but an elegant looking hand reaches forward and gingerly takes the box from him. There is nil physical contact, not even a brush of the fingers. There is only a brief eye contact, the guy's gaze flickering from the box, to his eyes, then to the door in quick successions. 

He looks at the box of bandaid in his hand, as if feeling it out, then the corners of his mouth twitches, like he’s about to smile, but he nods slightly instead before walking past him and a quiet drag of the wooden door tells him that he had walked into his classroom. 

He gets bumped in the shoulder once or twice by the tardy students but it doesn’t shake the shape of his fingers, all bones and hardened skin, out of his mind. 

‘And here I thought I was doing so well,’ he thinks, keeping his chin close to his chest. He saunters away, thinking that his legs were going to be sore if he had to keeping adding weights to the sand bags, even if they were figurative.

He’s going to feel it in his thighs tomorrow. 

 

∞∞∞

 

He doesn’t make a big deal out of soulmates. Which is why he doesn’t search every crook of his body each morning to see if he had the permanent black ink scribbled somewhere. It’s rare for someone his age to not have it. Maybe he already did but somewhere that he couldn’t see unless he was really searching for it. 

‘It doesn’t matter, it’s not like soulmates always work out,’ he thinks. His parents are not soulmates; they simply met each other before they met their soulmate, still fell in love and decided it was more than good enough for them. They both had their tattoo removed and never looked back since.

 

∞∞∞

 

The nameless guy didn’t seem to have any friends. 

‘He _doesn’t_ have any friends,’ he reminds himself. If the wounds are any indication, he is the furthest possible distant away from having any friends. It’s smart to keep away, but he has never cared for the unspoken social politics that he thinks are fatuous to abide by in high school. Wasn’t kindergarten enough? 

 

∞∞∞

 

It’s when the sky seemed higher and the sweltering sun is replaced by warm rays of vitamin D instead of possibilities of first degree burns and melanoma, that he sees him for the fourth time. 

He finishes his cleaning duties, his hands smelling foul from the dirty rags. He sniffs at them disdainfully before shoving them into his pockets of his hoodie that he started bringing around just in case it got chilly. 

He catches him by the fountain outside, between the school building and the sandy soccer field. He’s washing his hands with a bucket by his side, no doubt on his cleaning duties too. He sees a couple of bandages littered on his wrists and forearm stubbornly sticking to his tan skin despite the water. He sees them on his face as well; not on the same spot, but one on his cheekbone and another above his eyebrow. The graze he saw a couple weeks back is gone. 

He must have been staring, and he doesn't even realise he had stopped in his tracks, but the guy turns towards him after shaking the water off of his hands, eyes widening minutely. There is a lull again and he isn’t sure how he looks standing off in a distance, caught red-handed while gawking. 

The nameless guy taps on his cheekbone, right on the bandage, and the corner of his mouth twitches again, just like last time. 

He snaps out of it violently, but he does his best to turn away slow, not removing his hands from his hoodie. He isn’t sure if it’s his wishful thinking but he thinks he feels his gaze on him when he walks away. 

 

∞∞∞

 

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t seem him during his cleaning duties before. But that week, he sees him after school every day, either passing by each other on the staircase, near the fountain or the garbage disposal block. They don’t spare each other a single glance; a normal interaction, considering that he could count the number of time they saw each other with one hand. 

Instead of his face, he familiarises himself with his forearm, still full of bandages, his inexplicably awkward way of ambulating, the slight breeze smelling of grass whenever he walks by with his head ducked.

 

∞∞∞

 

It’s Thursday and he silently notes that after tomorrow, his cleaning duties end for the month. 

‘I guess I won’t be seeing him for a while,’ he thinks, turning the knob on the outdoor fountain, waiting for his bucket to fill. The loud noise of the water hitting the plastic deafens him and he spaces out, watching small specks of dirt sloshing around in the bucket with the miniature current. 

He almost jumps out of his skin and does a double take when the aforementioned guy (speak of the devil) comes up from behind him, turning on the water two spaces to his right. The noise doubles and he tries not to stare, but he keeps stealing glances. His eyes catches the bruises and scrapes on his arms that are uncovered. He sees only two bandages on his face and his neck. 

He speaks before he knows it:

“Did you use up the whole box?” 

It’s the guy’s turn to jump and he doesn’t bother hiding his surprise. His eyes are wide, only slightly obscured by his hair and he stares momentarily before giving him a slow nod. 

“…Yeah, I used up all of them.”

“…”

The guy doesn't say anything about his lack of polite speech. His bucket is almost to the brim and he turns off the water, letting some spill lest its too heavy. He glances at him one last time before heaving the bucket from the fountain. 

He regrets not emptying the bucket more because his arms aches by the time he gets to his classroom. 

 

∞∞∞

 

The next morning, he heads out a bit early to stop by the convenience store. He grabs the same one he bought the last time and instead of his pants pocket, he puts it in his bag this time. He finds himself checking after each period if it’s still there and by the time the bell rings for the last class of the day and his friends piles out after forcing out an agreement to meet them after his cleaning duties, he pulls the bandage out and places it in the pockets of his jacket. 

He sees him when he’s wiping the windows of his classroom; he has a handful of trash bags and he walks towards the garbage disposal, looking straight ahead. He drops the rag, feeling the bandages in his pockets and hops off the chair he was crouching on. He walks towards the side door of the school, the one closest to the garbage disposal. He waits for him to reappear. 

But he doesn’t, not after a minute, not after five minutes, not even after fifteen minutes. It takes him a moment to realise and it comes to him like a bucket of cold water thrown onto his face. He takes a step outside the door, and the moment he does, he hears several feet shuffling on the sandy concrete ground. He hears voices getting closer, speaking crude things. He doesn’t see their faces, nor does he hear what they are saying; he only feels the slight wind as they walk by, all sniggers and sneers and he shudders. 

He keeps walking towards the garbage disposal and when he turns the corner, he sees him there,all dirtied and bloodied. He’s leaning against the red brick wall, in the process of pushing himself up, a touch unsteady. 

When he sees him, he only looks surprised and nothing else. He doesn’t try to hide the beginning of the bruises or the scrapes. He doesn’t bother looking abashed or stricken, he just looks at him with raised eyebrows and widened eyes before casually beating off the dust on his uniform. 

There was another lull, but this time, he feels it heavy on his chest and he finds it hard to breath. 

The guy slowly raises his hand, and he wonders if he’s about to tell him to scram but he only tapshis temple that is grazed raw. 

“Do you have some more?” he asks. He waits motionlessly for the question to sink in and he tries hard not to panic. 

‘The wounds look bad, is that much blood normal? What if they get infected? Don’t some of these need stitches?’

Keeping his inner panic and anxiety to himself, he hands him the box wordlessly and he takes it just as silently. He opens it on the spot, taking out a few bandages and shoving the rest into his pocket. The second year starts to rip one open but he sees the wounds dirtied with gravel and sand and once again, he speaks before he realises:

“You should wash that.”

The guy looks back up at him and takes a second to reexamine his bleeding palms (how did he get injured on his palms?) then nods in agreement. 

“Okay,” he replies. He walks past him, presumably towards the fountain. He hesitates before he follows him, tagging along a few paces behind. He turns the water on, lets the dirt wash off of his bloodied palms, his elbow and brushes his scraped temples and chin. The guy doesn't look fazed but he flinches in his stead at the raw wounds being brushed so carelessly. He shakes the water off.

He opens his mouth to say that he should dry it and disinfect it first but what come out instead is:

“Do you not know how to take care of yourself?” 

He almost slaps himself at his foot in his mouth, and clenches his fists. He waits for an equally harsh retort, or at least for him to walk away, but what he sees instead is the twitch at the corners of his lips again. 

“No, not really,” he says, still holding the bandages in his hands. He regards him for a minute before turning away. 

“Wait here for a bit.”

He walks towards the nurses office in the first floor, tries knocking the first few times but no answer comes. He peeks around the door and sees it empty. He chews at his lips before opening the metal cabinet, picking out the spray disinfectant and ointment he’s been on the receiving end of a couple of times due to soccer injuries. The school nurse gave him a knock on the head that hurt more than the injuries each time he has limped into her office. He hastily writes on a sticky note on the nurses’ table, his name and his class and a promise to bring them back ASAP. 

‘He might have already left,’ he thinks, forcing himself to walk instead of jog. He breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees him still standing there, leaning against the fountain, seemingly already lost interest in his own injuries. He halts in front of him and precariously places the disinfectant and ointment atop of the fountain. 

“Spray that on your wounds..and put the bandaids on when they dry a bit.” 

The guy nods silently and proceeds to follow his instruction, not wincing at the stinging sensationthat he knew the disinfectant had on an open wound; whether it’s because he has no sense of pain or an immense sense of pride, he doesn’t know. 

The entire time, he feels uncertain glances being snuck in his direction and he tries to ignore them when it finally becomes too much, too obvious. 

“..What is it?” he asks, barely keeping from clucking his tongue. 

“…Is it your pastime to get involved in a stranger’s business?” 

“Hah?!” he turns his head fast enough to feel a twinge of whiplash. And here he was worrying about his infamous foot-in-his-mouth syndrome. 

“You seemed awfully invested in my physical well-being the past few weeks.” 

“That’s because I can’t stand idiots who don’t know how to take care of themselves.”

“…So your pastime is taking care of idiots who don’t know how to take care of themselves?” 

“What’s it to you, huh?!” he snarls, his inner siren ringing and calling aid to all his inner Jeans to put his defences on full alert. 

“Well, as a person on the receiving end of your pastime, I think I have the right to question _that_ much,” he answers, a gruff edge coming into his otherwise smooth voice. Just as he was about to start his well-thought out (and witty as hell) retort, he was cut off. 

“EREN!” a voice practically echoes through the empty soccer field and he turns to see a black haired girl with an aura and a face overwhelming enough to shut his stupid mouth up for good. She wasn’t wearing a school uniform but she didn’t look much older then them, a university student at best. All the while, the name that came out her mouth continues ringing in his ear. 

‘Eren? So he _had_ friends….a pretty one at that,’ he thinks, trying not to feel the pointless envy that was curling in his stomach. The black haired girl runs over and starts to fuss over him enough that he doesn’t feel so sheepish about his self-appointed trips to the convenient stores for the bandages anymore. 

‘Dammit, she even smells amazing,’ he thinks, the soft scent wafting from her hair cut an inch below her ears. 

“I’m _fine_ Mikasa, look, I even got properly patched up and everything,” the nameless guy ( _Eren)_ brushes her off and Jean almost shouts out in offence, because how _dare_ he brush her off. The girl takes a second to examine his bandaged up face and hand and she looks thoroughly surprised. 

‘Hah, you’re very much welcome,’ he thinks smugly, resisting the urge to puff his chest out. But he instantly freezes the moment her gaze turns towards him, her stare intense enough for him to break out in cold sweat. He vaguely wonders if he should walk away when he could. 

“Thank you," she says in an eerily calm voice. 

“H-, uh-, um,” he stutters, the pathetic little ass he is, and it doesn’t help that he can feel the other guy’s stare boring into him. Before he can properly say ‘you’re welcome’, or ‘it’s nothing’, whichever would have put him into the intimidating beauty’s favour, she turns away. 

“Come on, let’s go Eren.” 

“…Hey, thanks for the bandages,” Eren finally takes his eyes off of him and puts down the remainder of the bandages. “Meanwhile, you should try looking for another hobby,” Eren adds, giving a vague salute before turning to trot after his friend. Jean sees that he has dark brown hair to match his tan skin. He stands still till he hears a loud engine of a semi truck being started and he watches as the worn down vehicle drives away. 

“Tch…another hobby my ass,” he mutters, snatching up the medical supplies left on the water fountain and sauntering back to the nurse’s office. On his way back, he notices a slight buoyancy in his steps and he’s left to wonder if he had to put actual, physical sandbags on his ankles now. 

 

Also, he was right about his eyes. They were bright enough to leave spots in his vision and he rubbed his eyes till they stung, because to hell with _Eren_ , he could mess with his gravity but leave his damn sight alone. 


End file.
